


Essek, Alone

by Cers



Series: Tales from Eiselcross [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Allusions to Claustrophobia, Angst, C2E124 Coda fic, C2E124 Spoilers, Coda, Dark Thoughts, Fic Spanning 97-124, Gen, M/M, emotional stress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cers/pseuds/Cers
Summary: An artistic interpretation of what Essek's time between his last appearance and latest might have entailed.Caution for spoilers for C2E124.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss & The Mighty Nein, Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Series: Tales from Eiselcross [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2133714
Comments: 31
Kudos: 123





	Essek, Alone

Nicodranas was too warm. Too humid. Too…  _ bright. _ Too much. 

He stands, making the smallest of talks with figures either boringly mundane or very quietly oppressive. 

The hot air weighs on him heavier than his disguised mantle. It clogs in his throat with each forced laugh and tight smile. This was the prelude to his meeting with Da’leth. A nicety he had to endure before they could speak in private- 

What little breath he had been able to covet is promptly knocked out of him by the arrival of those he had deposited elsewhere only a few days prior. 

The illusion he dons spares the outward image of his nerves- so he hopes. The sweat that escapes his hairline, cloaked. His voice is quieter now when he speaks- for fear of discovery or conservating what air he can draw he does not know. 

Below decks, his illusion dispelled without consent. His armour gone, his mantle his last line of defence. He makes his points, spills his thoughts. One by one he spits them at this impregnable man. 

One by one they’re discarded with disdain. 

Finally, an insult too great for Essek to bear; he used to be colder, more calculating. His emotions bled through in the Nein’s presence (it aggrieved him to hear) and Ludinus saw it all. 

But Essek draws what he can from the stale, suffocating atmosphere around him and, with his head held high, shows Ludinus that he cares not for his opinion. 

As expected, the Martinet cares not and instead presses upon Essek the necessity of holding himself together. Unable to argue, Essek wraps himself in that constricting falseness of an arcane facade once more and feels more confined than ever. 

They depart and the sun bears down on him in judgement once more, pressing on the back of his illusioned neck and hastening his pace. 

The Nein are still on the dock, and they bid him farewell, until the party. He responds, but barely. They shout after him, but the growing roar in his ears prevents any other noise reaching him.

Essek leaves the docks, and his vision sways with the pressure mounting on his chest.

* * *

The party cages him. His bars and gaolers- people with glasses in their hands and too-loud laughs on their lips. The hall where they revel is spacious and decadent- a fine prison for him for this night. 

His robes are real- he had to adjust them. For two days his mantle suppressed him when previously it guarded. His armour doing more harm than good, he had swapped it for something slightly looser, more appropriate. Less to hide. And yet despite all these accommodations, he still tugged at the collar for a semblance of freedom. 

It matters not when he is cornered and drink spiked. He downs the wine- he doesn’t know how it came to be contaminated - and as soon as that chilled liquid slithers down his throat, his body begins to lock. 

Trapped in a nightmare he is physically manipulated and despite what ensues later on, unable to escape. 

He thinks, later, perhaps that he secretly didn’t want to. 

And so he sits on an unfeeling crate in a secluded cramped room and spills his confessions. 

It was supposed to be freeing. A weight off his shoulders that would leave him lighter and relieved- so stories would go. But instead, a chain wraps around him, each link a new admission that he verbalises out loud. With his story told, it hangs in the air- a guillotine ready to fall upon him. 

Instead, they don’t even consider pulling the lever and Essek is free to go with warnings and even the beginnings of forgiveness. Unable to be around them any longer, he departs swiftly and returns to his lodgings. Their understanding is another weight, a solid rock of foundation, placed gently, lovingly, disappointedly upon his chest. 

Essek’s eyes water as his throat works, desperate to draw breath fully. 

Alone in the darkness of his room, he drops everything- his disguise, his demeanour and his body to the floor. Wrapping his arms around himself, Essek rocks back and forth until his mind no longer drowns and begs for air. 

Such reprieve is, of course, denied him. 

* * *

He teleported twice to the deck of the Mighty Nein’s ship, arriving in the room he had been sentenced to living only days prior. The first brought back sharp memories- so sharp they cut at his throat and cut off his air as he bent over double vision blurring dizziness threatening- 

Essek immediately hurried back to safety. He couldn’t, not yet. Not now. It was too soon. 

The second he was more prepared. The walls did not charge him this time, boxing him in close or threatening imprisonment. They stood hard and fast, an unlit lantern swaying nearby in the sea-faring motion, but nothing more. The crate he had perched upon, ready to fall upon his metaphorical sword, was gone, tidied away or traded in his absence. Sounds of above reached him- voices calling, footsteps passing. None he recognised. Yet he stayed rooted by an unseen tether. The door was not far. Precisely three seconds of movement at his average floating speed would get him there. And yet there he stood. 

The room air- briny and salted- clings to the roof of his mouth and he realises he’s close to hyperventilating again. Dropping to his feet and leaning on a structured column for support, Essek looks to the floor and tries to breathe. Unlike the waters outside, the floorboards do not undulate in their motion and within a few moments, he calms enough to operate again. 

Already cutting it fine he takes a few moments to collect himself and fashions himself in a guise they will readily recognise. While unable to fully contain his facial expressions beneath the illusion, he is grateful for the buffer it provides- almost as though a layer of film between they and he. 

Something he feels is sorely needed... perhaps more so for the Mighty Nein than himself. 

He floats… and floats. Not moving. Not swaying. He wills himself, staring at the door with  apprehension. The door itself is simple and wooden- a rusted, unused lock attached and it has a dominating presence that can only be rivalled by the one leading to the Bright Queen’s throne room. 

Only hearing a loud peal of laughter from Jester, a booming one from Fjord and a cackle of Veth’s and Beau’s coaxes him into movement. He opens the door in a swift motion. 

Ascending the stairs is like climbing his own gallows and he has no idea whether his executioners will pardon him… or condemn him to the watery depths below. 

The crew appear to be all above deck as he passes no one, but soon he stands in shadow, looking out to the open space before him and the familiar figures he dared once call friends. 

Sunlight blesses them, tanning their skins and colouring their hair in shimmering waves. This life agrees with them, as they all look forward to the oncoming fleet. A line sits beyond his form, separating the dark and light- a stark contrast and rather partial metaphor for their situation, he laughs to himself. The laugh is hollow, and empty. He cannot fill it with any mirth or true joy for there is none in the vacuum he is slowly becoming. 

But he laughs anyway… and no sound comes forth. 

They do not stay lit for long as soon an inky wave shrouds all with the arrival of the Kryn representatives. Finding it ideal, he gathers his courage and takes a breath- only to find he cannot. No air comes in, or out, and his rattled nerves flee him swiftly. He notices, rather bitterly, that the chains of guilt still hang without care on his soul. 

His next breath refuses to replenish his reserve of calm, but nevertheless Essek moves forward on to the deck and whatever his fate may be. 

* * *

Peace did not bring the harmony to the Dynasty it should have. Whispers floated, questions asked. Rumours arose and tensions with them. 

He worked. As normal. He reported. As normal. He studied. As normal. He went on… as normal. 

And yet every day the arches of the Lucid Bastion loomed over him a fraction more, as though peering and judging him specifically. The stacks and shelves of the Marble Tomes no longer held safety and comfort. Now they housed suspicion, and knowledge of his sins. Boxed in and unable to see the words before him, Essek had fled his oldest sanctuary to bar himself at home- cold and isolated. 

A kind steward deposited the papers and notes Essek had left behind in his haste later, but the behaviour would be reported later, he knew. He can’t keep this up, he cannot work here like this. His actions were catching up with him too fast.  _ Much  _ faster than he ever anticipated. 

His own awareness of assassins creeping upon him at any moment haunts his waking hours… and thread through his nightmares like dark tendrils. Flashes of silver has his hands twitching beneath his cloak before reason informs him it was simply jewellery, or crockery, or ornaments or armour- 

Peace was supposed to bring harmony to the Dynasty- and himself by extension. But now he jumps at his own shadow. It happens once too many times, the flinching and rapid head turns, in the presence of others. He knows already that court will hear of this peculiar development in their Shadowhand. 

Rumours regarding him start to gain a little more traction ahead of the others under scrutiny… and Essek starts to strain against his political bindings. 

Essek is wrapped in his usual armour as he presents before the Queen, begging with smooth words wrapped in silk for a posting north. His argument contains reasons of the arcane, the divine. References to previous excavations and findings that Essek doesn’t need to pretend excites him. Since the war gone by, he can return to what he is good at- the study and application of Dunamancy and, my Queen, these Aeorian artefacts react curiously with our own magic I would  _ very  _ much like to see this in action-

He finds himself on a Vurmas ship a scant two days later. 

Distance. That’s what he needed. Distance and shelter away from roaming eyes looking for a scapegoat and sacrificial animal. Going to the coldest place known to them was sure to quell the heat on him for the foreseeable future. 

Boarding the boat was surprisingly more nerve-wracking than requesting the position. Open and exposed at a dock north of Xhorhas, Essek throws a final glance to the wastelands he calls his origin. No one is immediately looking his way, though that is of little comfort. They wouldn’t need to. 

Hairs standing on the back of his neck, Essek turns his back on his homeland and climbs the impressive vessel ferrying him from immediate danger. 

Much to his surprise, and with an acute pang of disappointment that frightens him, Essek survives the boarding of  _ The Soulsailor _ .

* * *

Essek thought that watching the long strip of land recede into the horizon would settle his woes. He thought it would alleviate the damning weights on his mind, lessen the chains holding him down. Instead, as Xhorhas winked into nothing and the view from his room was nothing more but sea and more sea… Essek felt more trapped than ever. 

He frequently thought about teleporting back to his tower for security, for familiarity. To get some  _ air _ . But then, mid-casting he would remember that assassins would look for him there and the boat would feel safer. Only fractionally.

His room was small, quaint, but housed his basic needs. Comfort was an afterthought and Essek brought few personal effects. A single, folded parasol stands upright in the corner of his cabin and Essek glances to it more often than he should. 

Even with his porthole open, in one of the higher rooms available on this floating commune, Essek finds it still difficult to inhale fully. There’s a presence at his back and its name is Paranoia and he finds it a very poor bedfellow to sleep alongside. It wraps around him invading his space clinging to his person and doesn’t let go no matter how hard he fights. In the end, Essek accepts its presence. 

He roams the ships in random spurts, often skipping on meals and whiling away the journey. Only when necessary does he meet with staff and other expeditionists he’ll be working with. His information on them is limited, so he scrutinises them closely each time. 

On some days his mind is coherent enough to be aware that out and about the various stairways and ‘streets’ is enough to keep him safe. The public eye is a rather large deterrent to assassination-unless making a statement. 

No, that’s not their style. His death will be personal- up close and intimate. Of that, he has little doubt. A knife in his back, poison in his food… something that would only target him. 

A chokehold around his throat. 

The skies grow darker quicker as the vessel sails northward. The temperature plummets like his mood and nerves, and Essek is unable to wear a scarf. Even at it’s loosest all he can feel is the tightening of a rope and dark blots dot his vision. 

He ends up giving his scarves away, trading it for some secret provisions to feed himself with. The biscuits are stale, the tea leaves dry… but it tides him over. For now. 

Starguide Uraya checks in once a week on the three-week voyage. A general update and more information about what to expect upon landfall. Essek likes the goblin. They’re to the point and direct, but not rude about it. Courteous and mannerly. Younger by physical age, but elder in wisdom and consecuted lifespan, Uraya has Essek’s general trust by the time they reach Eiselcross. 

Which isn’t much, but vastly more than most. 

It is a long sail to their destination, and Essek’s thoughts oft-drift to the last time he was upon a ship. He thought moving away from the accusing scrutiny and political mire that was the Dynasty right now would alleviate his fears, calm his nerves. 

How very wrong he turned out to be. 

* * *

The outpost was basic- rudimentary to its core. Cleverly hidden, and thankfully already established, Essek was granted ‘luxuries’ the first settlers did not have access to. Nevertheless, he keeps a careful watch over his shoulder. 

Just because he survived the journey, did not mean he was safe. An assassin could be lying in wait for an ‘accident’, or a snowstorm or animal attack of some kind or even to blame it on some curious, unknown Aeorian artefact malfunctioning backfiring interfering nullifying and condemning him - 

When Essek comes to his vision is skewed and a lot lower than he anticipates. It takes a moment for outside noise to filter through and for him to recognise the day-to-day-life of the outpost. Peering through chair and table legs at a perpendicular angle to normal makes him understand his perspective- that he is laying on the floor. 

Sitting up is a dangerous affair as he sways heavily before the world stops swimming moments later. 

He puts his head in his hands and doesn’t take it back out. 

* * *

Aeor is  _ fascinating _ . Their entrance is cleverly obscured from prying eyes and guarded, and their other cautious measures to hide their delving presence secures them. 

Essek glides gloved fingers a hair’s breadth away from ancient crumbling walls decorated with designs and decorations not seen in a millennium. His breath is small puffs of giddy excitement as he follows the Captain deeper into their section. Floating, he makes no footprints or steps and his compatriots are well versed in the art of stealth as they head deeper in. 

It has taken two full days of briefings and goings-over of crudely drawn maps, as well as a two-hour journey out from the post, but now Essek is finally here. 

He had been so busy drowning in his own fears he had forgotten the anticipation of actually  _ reaching  _ the ruins themselves. For centuries these paved roads and cracked buildings had lain dormant and undisturbed excepting for the more dangerous life found deeper within. Sticking to the outskirts, for now, they had already uncovered so much and Essek would be lying if he said he hadn’t had his nose buried in every previous report and mission statement given from past excavators. The findings were already so bountiful and they had barely scratched the surface, and now his hands tremble with anticipation instead of anxiety. 

He spends two days down there, camping rough in the corner of an old shop. Any contents had long smashed and scattered to the ground in the crash, but a single sign still advertised pottery and fine wares. 

Essek felt safer and more at home in the ruins of a long-lost civilisation than when he breached the surface once more to return. Somehow the musty, frozen air of Aeor- which carried echoes of darker terrors roaming the streets- felt easier to breathe than the open, blowing winds of Eiselcross ever did. 

There was something comforting about the iced lid above trapping them. For all Essek’s own shame and torment made him float a few inches lower, there was a curious reassurance in knowing that down here  _ all _ had the sky threatening them from overhead. He didn’t feel as alone or as much a target as when he walked with the ghosts of a people long-dead. 

And when they discovered texts relaying more confirmation of an item resembling a beacon, well Essek knew he was in the right place. 

* * *

Returning to Rosohna was a nervous affair. For all his predecessors had confirmed such a feat was safe to do, Essek’s fingers still trembled a little as they drew familiar sigils in the air. Nevertheless, he takes one last lungful of frigid air and finishes his incantation.

Distance was supposed to have quashed his nerves, and yet opening his eyes to that familiar circle in the Underarches made Essek tremble like the northern cold never did. 

His report to the Queen is delivered promptly, such findings too important to be entrusted to a simple Sending or Letter. The excitement in his voice masks any tremors his terror is responsible for, and her reaction is more than favourable. He feels the needle-like gazes of the silent court around him. The walls echo with his words, reverberating them back like backhanded deflections. His neck aches with tension, his temple throbbing already, but Essek speaks and speaks, and ignores the suspicious stares pinning him down to the spot. 

He is dismissed with gratitude, and he leaves with no shackles around his neck or limbs. 

As with once before upon leaving the Queen’s presence, Essek makes to sigh with relief - only to find members of Den Bylan and Duendalos outside. Unable to give any show of weakness, Essek holds his head and breath and floats past them with a cursory nod of acknowledgement. 

Finding a spare alcove, he looks around and teleports to - 

Home. 

Essek expects sleek, unused furniture and glass display cases untouched. He expects closed doors and a laboratory where he knows its entire contents. 

What he opens his eyes to see is mismatched furniture, purple vermaloc interior, and a library just starting to form. 

Essek’s chest hurts with his held breath and it comes out hoarse and forced as he sinks and stumbles to his familiar chair where he and Caleb would often study. 

He shouldn’t be surprised. He shouldn’t. Not really. This felt more home than any of his towers did. That was a safespace, a place away from Den and Court life. His own personal haven. But now that was tainted with the threat of his own demise hanging over him. He didn’t even feel safe in his own towers… 

No. It really wasn’t a wonder he came here. 

His headache palpitates with his rapidly drumming heart and a groan escapes his lips. His breast still aches as though torn with exertion and Essek lays his forehead upon his crossed arms. 

He wakes up in darkness, alone, a few hours later. It was the most sleep he’d had in some time and his fur-lined cloak sticks to the back of his neck with sweat. His spine protests at him sitting up and Essek hasn’t felt this relaxed since- well… a long time, anyway. 

Essek sighs but it is unfulfilling, not quite alleviating as it should. For all this house had been absent of life for longer than his, the air is still warm. And inviting. Familiar and embracing. The door out of the library beckons, willing him to explore and seek comfort… but he has trespassed long enough and wishes not to break any more trust. 

A bitter laugh escapes his dried lips. How can you break that which you do not have?

Nevertheless, he gives a single, long look around the study once more, and lifts his hand to spellcraft.

* * *

It is another week before Essek returns to the Dynasty. He delivers his report; further information found, promising direction, and piling evidence. It is met with a little less ceremony than before, and the air in the room feels thick with tension. 

Once more he walks away without shackles on him but Essek fears it is only a matter of time. They are probably knocking candidates off their lists of suspects in his absence and his return only highlights his existence each time. 

His mind supplies a long list of its own -one of colourful curses used by the Nein in his presence. He sifts through them all but none quite hold the gravitas of the encroaching terror he feels. 

He doesn’t bother to go anywhere else he needs  _ out  _ **now.**

His haste to leave was his first mistake. 

The first time he had teleported to Eiselcross had been a fluke, he feels. No incidents, no errors. Safe and sound, there and back. 

This time he had no such luck on his side. 

What Essek anticipated was battering breezes and white wastes that stretched for miles at worst. What he got was so much more horrific. 

Essek usually teleported between places he was familiar- the first translocation hiccough with the Mighty Nein was his first, proper failure at a teleport. It had been - … there had been some  _ minor  _ discomfort. It left him a little bruised on the inside but nothing more than that excepting perhaps his ego. 

This failure was like that was amplified. 

Later, much…  _ much _ later, Essek was able to evaluate why the teleport went so awry. Previous theories and reports from his predecessors at the outpost confirmed as much, but the magic surrounding the ancient city conflicted with some kind of arcane destructive interference. Yes, much later Essek was able to break it down into rational explanations and theories… but at the time all Essek could do was scream.

Except he couldn’t. 

Material and solid and form invaded Essek throughout every fibre of his body, assaulting and shattering through his physicality like nothing else he had ever experienced. The sensation was intrusive and violating in a way so intimate Essek grieved. Where he tried to see- there was darkness. Where he tried to scream, silence. 

Earth and rock and dirt and history and age and ice and agony and terror and horror filled Essek’s body now. 

Movement was an impossibility. Thought- a mere memory. His entire self was superimposed within a moment in space and it chained him there like his sins never could. 

The entire experience happened in less than a second, yet when Essek re-appeared at his eventually-successful translocation, he was a wretched husk of a man. 

Crimson and pain decorated the snow where he appeared. Bones shattered and crooked - Essek arrived at the outpost splayed brokenly and near-death. 

With the most intensive healing on-site it takes him three days to get back up and moving. This was not the physicians’ first failed teleporting incident it seemed and few questions were asked. Not that Essek could speak with his body as broken and crushed as it was. He was alive, but barely. The headache lasted longer.

As he recuperated Essek was surprised, and secretly touched, by Uraya who never left his bedside. It could easily have been to assassinate him. Or just because he was the Shadowhand. But Essek’s gut was leaning towards… care. And given their few conversations in private… Essek felt this to be true. Uraya keeps him updated on the post happenings- the reports and sendings and findings. Essek addresses them in his moments of coherency and fears his next return to Rosohna for one more reason. 

Eventually, he is discharged almost as good as new- he could not fault the healers and their work. But even with the scars hidden and bloodstains long removed, Essek could still feel the ghost of a mountain suffocating him without care. The moments he would remember would have him reaching for the nearest window and the sky would console him for a moment before the openness reminded him of his vulnerability. 

He was always careful to never slam the window shut. 

Essek would disregard warning from Uraya to give it time to make sure he’s healed before his next descent into the ruins. He needed a change of scenery and action and work and distraction. Milling around the outpost did little good for him. So he made himself useful and accompanied the next group into the ruins. 

What scarce paperwork and rubbings they had recovered required many uses of language-translation spellwork to understand. Some curious amalgamation of ancient Draconic and Common. Some signage was in both, one beneath the other. Some combined the two. Like the runes and arcane sigillary they had found, it was  _ almost _ recognisable but just not quite. 

Despite the prevalent theory of the city separating its districts into… subjects, topics almost like the Marble Tomes Library did, Essek finds is strangely curious that there was no immediate class divide. What little information they had intercepted or eavesdropped from the Empire supported this also for now. It was fascinating- the only immediate indication to any sort of divide between the people was arcane capability. Otherwise, it appeared to be a leading utopia where all were cared for equally. Prestige was awarded beyond birthright and Essek would be lying to himself if the thought wasn’t one he had had before. Looking to the state of the Dynasty and the nepotism that went into granting him his position as early as it was… Essek couldn’t help but hope that this current working theory about the Aeorian people to be true. 

The ward they coveted just now appeared to be a district dedicated mostly to the ruling, policing, and governing of the giant city. Offices and official buildings with words long-faded across them collapse at a slant. Lawmakers and Financiers and other administrative bureaus led them further in but little else was picked so far. What he really wished to find was a school, university, or library. So far no such luck. They spend three days there this time. 

Despite being underground, once more Essek would come to feel more safe in the depths of the Praesidis Ward than amongst his own people halfway across the world. 

More than once he has the thought that Caleb would be excited to see this. More than once Essek was caught up in his own fantasy that now he catches himself whenever he turns to explain something newfound. There is no man beside him to share his interests. Not anymore. No one to posit theories or bounce ideas with. Not here. 

Essek always turns back to what he works upon, his shoulders a little higher and jaw a little tighter. 

The chains of his shame wrap around his chest that little bit more and not even Aeor can free him from remembering. 

* * *

He returns to Rosohna once more. His report has less information than the previous time. There are still small advancements made, but the ruins are perilous and angled, not easy to traverse, my Queen. It takes some time to set up safe measures for our parties, and we dare not stay too long for fear of attracting dangers unknown. This upsets me to tell you so little also, but it is what we found. 

Essek was accustomed to giving his reports from her side, or at least only a platform down. On the rare occasions he came in here with the Nein did he speak from ground level. He was familiar enough with the throne room his entire life to become acclimatised to how large the room feels, but after so much time away and returning under the surveilling glares of the Court, Essek has never felt so small in his place of power. Even from here, as she sits unmoving, regal, ethereal, he can see her lips purse with displeasure. He feels a garrote of fear around his throat and he can speak no more as he waits for judgement. 

Was this it- they were to make a fool of him like so? His last act to be one of disappointing news and failure to appease the Queen? 

Essek would replay the moment over and over in his mind many hours and days and weeks later. He would analyse every face in his peripheral vision. Every flicker of arcane torchlight. He would remember the way that the crystal behind her would glint with a malicious intent and how the Dusk Captain would stay statue-still, her hand remaining on her hilt. Essek would recall the way that Leylas’ eyes bore into him and how, in that moment, Essek would not twitch his fingers to teleport. He would not ready any spell to grant him a hasty escape. 

No.

He would simply remember the Mighty Nein in the same position as he laid eyes on them for the first time. How they came in with hope in their hearts and love in their words. Essek had not believed a word of their story for weeks, acceding only the existence of the halfling man. But as time had gone on, he had re-evaluated and very slowly undid every knot of suspicion he had on them until all that was left was them- pure and flawed, welcoming him into their house for dinner. 

He was sure, all those months ago, the ragtag group of mercenaries would have gone out fighting, intent on doing as much damage as possible. Instead, they brought forth the Dynasty’s most sacred relic and condemned Essek to his fate of falling. 

And oh how he fell. He fell from grace, he fell from trust. He fell from his ivory towers and position of import. He fell with his plummeting credibility. His loyalties fell in with them. His heart fell in love with him. 

And here he stood, unable to move of his own terror and numb acceptance, at the most ornate of gallows, waiting for her hand to raise and cut the air. 

Except she doesn’t. 

Essek does not hear the words she speaks initially. The shock of her speaking meant all audio evaded him initially. The only thing he could hear was the banging drum that was his heartbeat in this moment. No guards charged him. No swords were drawn. She simply spoke. 

She had to repeat herself- something she  _ rarely _ did. And this time he heard her ire at having to do so. 

She thanked him, praised the outpost for its work, and bid them continue on safely to bring back hopeful news of their Luxon Beacon.

It took all his decades of training and practised formality to not crumple on the spot. Essek bows deeply- a move that had him gritting his teeth with how vulnerable it was - and thanked the Queen for her time and radiance. 

Essek teleports as soon as the courtroom doors behind him close, uncaring of the stir it would cause.

A move he later regrets, realising the ripples it may cause but in the moment he would rather risk the mountain choking him than stay a moment longer in Rosohna. 

The first thing he does upon completion is throw up. 

Having eaten nothing that morning all that comes forth is bile and chokes. Nevertheless, his stomach churns and the ice is hard on his hands and knees. His fingers are frozen by the time he pushes himself up and his abdomen aches with the forced retching. And then he looks around. 

The upside to his situation is that no one saw him collapse weakly like that. Such a reaction could not be easily explained away and would have no doubt reached the ears of folks suspicious. 

The downside is that he could not see anything for miles and miles. 

White wastes stretch on for as far as his eye can see, and given he has to shade his eyes with a hand… that’s not very far. Nor can he teleport again- his capabilities to do so expended for today. 

Essek once again consults that long list of Mighty Nein curses and comes up with nothing severe enough. 

Essek’s memory recalls the map he had scoured over for any visible landmark or waypoint or-

There’s nothing. No river of molten rock, no sound of waves or promise of a mountain range or peaks. Nothing. 

The scouts and veterans at the outpost were not fools, nor did they suffer them. One of the first things Essek had been subjected to before going anywhere was a long lecture on survival. Essek had consumed the information like a sponge- as was his nature- and filed it away hoping it to never be necessary. The captain had been pressing, hard, and severe in her warnings of dos and do nots, making the new arrivals - himself included- repeat back what she had said or questioning them in the moment on topics long since discussed. She had shown them equipment, taken them outside to a dugout to demonstrate acts and visual aids. Some of the training had even been put to use in the ruins- though Essek never led those particular efforts, only aided when directed. Even though he was responsible and in charge of the outpost now, he was not so haughty to override people in their places of expertise. 

Essek had learned the bare minimum to survive… but he had not counted on doing so alone. Or without tools. 

Foolish didn’t even cover it. 

The wind already tinted his face red with stinging. His eyes already protested at the snow blindness and Essek had to risk in short bursts to view where the sun position was. One one hand… It was mid-afternoon. This was good news in that it would be dark soon. On the other hand… it was bad for he would have to survive the night alone before attempting to go back again tomorrow. 

He needed to sleep and rest, which was the one thing he couldn’t do in the open save risking exposure and worse. 

At the outpost, his chains and bondage slumped his shoulders and dragged him down, but his cage door was always open. Teleporting to Rosohna was like slamming that door shut and throwing away the key so far beyond reach he didn’t even know where it went. And now, alone in the wide, open expanse that was Eiselcross… Essek felt the cage converge on him. 

* * *

Essek’s time as Shadowhand had required many duties from him, especially in the last few months. Scrying was one of them. He does not scry upon the Nein anymore -he has little trust to break, but it was precious and fragile and he would not risk it- but in the rare few times that he had he would occasionally do so when they rested. They had spoken about the ‘dome’ and Essek realised with these scries which spell they referred to. He had not had need to learn it himself, but before he had been headed to Eiselcross, and how useful it was as protection, Essek had sought it out. 

As luck would have it- no, not luck. Paranoia and fear were his dominating emotions now. As it stood, he had this prepared and so isolated in the middle of nowhere, curled up upon himself in an opaque bubble, Essek waits alone. 

The air is regulated within, thankfully. The temperature difference is noticeable immediately and after a while, Essek is comfortable enough to take his cloak off. 

He realises with a start that this is the first time he has truly been alone in… a long time. He does not have to look over his shoulder. He is protected. He cannot move and he has nothing to distract him. No responsibilities. No people to report to or from. No casualty lists to make or stock inventory to review. No research to study or distract or ponder or verify or pontificate - 

Only Essek and his thoughts. And that was dangerous. 

Sleep did not come easy. It evaded him, much like his grasp on his political and current situation. As the sun set and darkness shrouded the land, Essek went from endless white to immeasurably black. 

He was floating in space. The moons were obscured by malicious clouds and Essek was floating.

This felt different from his usual levitation. Where that was more like a magical harness holding him aloft, this experience was more like maintaining involuntary buoyancy on a calm sea. Looking up to the sky, pinpricks of stars peek through. He was no astronomical expert- though he had a fair understanding of the physics behind it- but he recognised familiar constellations and formations. Even if they were skewed and tilted. 

They brought little comfort. His back ached with his posture. His ears twitched for noise not there. His eyes strained beyond their limits for any movement, and Essek waited. 

Alone. 

No. Not alone. His only companions were his thoughts and like the Paranoia laying suspiciously dormant right now, made for poor bedfellows. 

Like this lightless ocean he sat upon, Essek’s mind was a whirlpool. Round and round in damning circles, reaching for lifelines just out of reach. The Nein hover on the periphery, unable to help despite stretching forward. He’s grateful that they try, but it does not matter when a shackle clamps his ankles and the anchor of his treason pulls him down swiftly. 

His breathing is rapid, shallow, ineffective and hard. His eyes sting as he presses his palms onto them and his body throbs with the loneliness keeping him safe. 

He’s drowning in the open air and there is nothing he can do for he chokes on his lies, his actions, the consequences and heartbroken expressions of those he began to dare call ‘friend’. 

The whirlpool spins and spins. Were it not for his actions, he might not have met the Mighty Nein. He would be a cold individual whose only joy was selfish successes. Were it not for his actions, the war would have sparked later, off something else- but at least not the failed attack on Zadash retrieving beacons he himself stole away. He cannot fault the Nein for halting that effort, not when they kept it from the Assembly. 

Something resembling a laugh cracks forward in the wintry silence and falls upon deaf ears. Amazing how his views had shifted. Where once he looked west to the Assembly being a bastion of arcane advancement and potential peers, now he knows what snakes truly slither and run the pinnacle of magical prowess in the Empire. He shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. His hands steeple as he sits cross-legged and his elbows dig into his knees as he presses fingers to lips. 

Meeting with Ludinus to call off their arrangement in Nicodranas had been the last freeing action Essek had made. Any and every step made since was merely a complicated dance in avoiding the hunting inevitable. ‘Contact’ with the Assembly had been sparse at best- the vial of extracted dunamis confirmed that. By Essek’s reckoning, the Nein had the item for weeks or longer with no word of such from the Assembly in that frame to him. 

‘Fool’ didn’t cover it. Essek committed treason and what did he have to show for it? A fear of his own shadow and the isolation he always craved. 

But he had them. Even when they were far and distant and away… he had them. 

And he had lost them long before he ever did. 

Essek sighs and finds it incomplete. His chest aches and this time he doesn’t think it’s his lungs. 

Steepled hands sweep slowly up his face to grasp at his hair, head hanging in something heavier than shame. The ice below him reflects a cold, unfeeling image of himself in the dark and Essek wonders how he ever was that man. Did he want to be again? Did he want to have the need of looking over his shoulder removed? He had gambled his own life and received an encroaching bounty instead. It hadn’t been worth it. 

And then it had been. Because at least he had them. And him. And their brief, imperfect moments together. Even now he cannot fully regret the things he had done, not when it brought them to him.

So round and round he drowns, in the whirlpool that is his mind. 

If he could undo it, his mind supplies some time past midnight, he could change the past. He could prevent so much- the Assembly gaining power and knowledge. The abduction of Veth’s husband. The loss of life at the border and beyond. It wouldn’t even cost him much. 

He was already lonely. 

Solitude had been Essek’s preferred companion for as long as he remembered. He trusted no one but himself, and anything beyond that was cursory and temporary. Even now he was still fractionally suspicious of Uraya - as though leading him through a false sense of security, creating a cover-up or alibi for themself. He didn’t want to be, but it was hard to undo decades of nature overnight. 

So he thought. 

Nicodranas had certainly been a time. 

Time travel. The manipulation of the fabric of reality. Altering the course of events known. It would solve so much and he would only roll back four years. A drop, really, in the sea of history. No one would know. 

His papers and research on the matter evaded him immediately as they were stationed at home. Any Dunamancer worth their salt dedicated a portion of their time to unlocking time travel or reversal. Miniscule, localised ticks could be pinched and pulled for a handful of seconds but worldwide...for so long… 

He looks to the messy reflection he scarcely recognises. The knowledge that he could be atop a lost fragment of the city sends a shiver through him. Aeor might have been close. Aeor… with their dedicated mageocracy and pastimes probably had more collective research on what the Dynasty call ‘Dunamancy’ than the entire history of Kryn arcanists combined.  _ If only he could reach it. _ If only he could touch but a  _ fraction _ of that knowledge- oh what secrets and advancements he might make!

To undo what he knows now as folly and blind naivety. To redact that which failed so spectacularly the cost was innumerable and preventable. The Dynasty and Empire had been inching towards war for years, balanced precariously on a double-edged sword. A child’s breath could have toppled it either way and he knew this. Even so, contributing to the eventual, official catalyst did not sit well with Essek. He thought the initial theft to possibly cause the war but when that did not happen… he waited and ignored it. When war broke it was more an inconvenience to his daily routine and workload than anything else.

And they crashed into his life holding aloft that which he had stolen not too long prior and unknowingly started his downfall. 

Or rise. He wasn’t sure at this point. He was at the lowest he had ever been in his life with no aid, no help, no results or back up plan. Suspicion followed his every move and execution hung over him every waking moment. His eating and sleeping habits were...tentative at best beforehand but now… now it was rare. 

He was a shell of himself and yet he had grown and learned so much in the last few months as a person than he ever did in his last few decades. 

The tradeoff was brutal and Essek struggled to justify it or argue it. 

Like a pendulum, he would swing back and forth between elation to relief to fear to acceptance and grief. He mourned for what he lost, he mourned for what he gained. He exalted at the idea of changing the past while cautioning the present and fearing the future. His mind was a rabble of yeses and nos, undulating like his mood. Tremors of excitement thrilled him, filled him with fantastic terrors never felt before. The idea of Aeor, the idea of freedom, the idea of damnation, the idea of corruption. Shame, guilt, fear, loneliness, rejection hollowness tiredness he was so tired of running already -

Uraya had contacted him just after dusk, enquiring to his whereabouts. Essek had informed them that there had been a delay and he would return tomorrow. The words had come out scripted and mechanical, no afterthought. 

But now, staring out into the everlasting nothingness with the void for a sky beyond his simple dome… Essek wondered if it would be so easy. 

He didn’t have to return. He didn’t have to wait for someone to come and finish him. He could… take that matter into his own hands. Isn’t that what he had done his entire life anyway? 

He thinks he sees large silhouettes moving far beyond. Maybe. Maybe it’s his eyes playing tricks. Probably. Exhaustion and hunger barely scratch the surface of what he feels. Maybe they are some of the monstrous creatures reported to roam the wastes. Perhaps it's his own demons come to claim him. 

How easy it would be to let drop the dome and let nature decide his fate. It would be his choice. It would be his right. 

The paradoxical pendulum swings. The mental maelstrom churns. And Essek doesn’t sleep well this night. 

It's dawn when the protection fades, and Essek doesn’t move except for wincing at the sharp winds now cutting his face. 

The numbness catches him. Then the nothingness. Then the empty and the false warmth. 

And Essek, ever the coward, cannot go through with it. Relying on muscle memory alone, he paints a rune in the air and returns to the outpost. 

He sends Uraya to the Dynasty to report from then on out. 

* * *

It is Jester’s first message that sparks life back into him. And knowing they were across this forsaken island somewhere miles and miles from him but closer than before baffles him -but fills him with a warmth he hasn’t felt since the Peace Talks. 

His skin buzzes now- the hairs still stand on the back of his neck but he has a childlike excitement stoking within him now. He doesn’t know if they will meet, but their chances grow exponentially as they draw close, surely. He fears for them, treading this dangerous terrain, but he cannot ignore that their proximity encourages him. 

Uraya, ever observant, notices of course but says nothing. Essek is grateful and attempts to temper his giddiness. Not only are they near… but they still wish to speak with him. At least Jester does. She has not been poisoned against him in their absence, at least… he doesn’t think so. 

Days pass with no word or sign and in his nervousness, he asks Uraya’s help. The goblin is helpful and studious, quick to soothe Essek’s fretting before Essek has even realised. They share his bartered tea and biscuits, as is their now-weekly custom, and Essek laughs at Uraya’s expressions of Jester being Jester. 

The days pass again, Essek delves once more into Aeor but bearing little fruit to show for it. 

The melancholy of the Nein being so far settles in too comfortably, waylaid by brief further messages from Jester that only portend something awful. New arrivals come, and old hands go as the next Vurmas ship makes dock elsewhere and Essek’s hackles are up once more with so many unknown faces. He spills his ink as his hand jerks, messes up a simple spell with a voice crack. His carefully crafted facade was held together by sheer willpower at this point and even that was failing him in seeping doses. 

He is the recipient of curious head turns, cocked glances, and questioning stares and Essek might as well be looking over a cliff for how on edge he feels. 

Jester keeps in sparse contact and each time her voice falters a little with worry. They are on the trail of something curious and unknown and Essek adds more fear to his personal payload for them. Her warnings are foreign and nonsensical but he does not doubt her sincerity. He just wishes they would come to him. He… wishes to see them, and remain hidden from their view in one complex mess of emotions. To be perceived by them again after so long… will they be cold? Unfeeling? Using him as a stopping point this far out? Perhaps. And it would be appropriate. They owe him nothing. He owes them everything. It would make sense. 

A new chain is added to his person claiming to be Remorse. His breaths are so forced and strained at this point Essek is an upright corpse most days, relying on routine and responsibility to keep him operating. 

And then comes the words  _ “We’re en route. We’re in the middle of a bunch of spires? What should we be looking for? How do we find you? Gee whiz...you... are... great!” _

He smiles, in spite of himself. She was a force unlike any other, that woman. His mind was too tired to drum up an argument of her simply being sycophantic - something he was very grateful for he would hate to ever inadvertently accuse her being such. Jester was more open than the cloudless sky above him and not a power on this earth could counter that. 

Not even Essek Thelyss. 

He keeps an eye out, almost copying Uraya’s habit of curtain-twitching when figures are spotted on the horizon. As expected, the perimeter watch is already in motion and he sincerely hopes the Nein listened to his warnings of no weapons out. 

His throat works itself raw as the shapes start to come closer and closer, evidence that they are non-hostile, and Essek spends his last few moments alone perfecting the mask of Shadowhand. 

It doesn’t prevent an odd grin from creeping through when he opens the door- and Jester all but knocks what little wind he has out of him with the intensity of her hug. 

His arms ache to reciprocate but formality and expectation hold him fast. His eyes betray him as they flit around the group and rest longer on one that he ever intends before darting away. Everyone is staring everyone is looking and waiting and watching and expecting-

It is a little while before they have a moment alone. 

* * *

Essek doesn’t just spill the truth, he outright pours it. Any question they ask, he proffers forth honesty as its answer. He cares not if it appears desperate. These people condemned him to live and he does not have the heart or energy or reason to lie to them.

Caleb asks if anyone suspects from the Dynasty and Essek all but laughs maniacally. “Not yet,” he says. “Who knows.” a laugh escapes him anyway- the same hollow, mirthless one he has bitterly spat for weeks. “It’s possible.” 

The faceless figures shrouded in shadow at the court line the walls of his outpost chamber in his periphery and Essek’s eyes dart to view them. As expected, not there when he looks, but they watch him anyway. 

“I am enjoying the change of pace,” he lies-No. No, he doesn’t lie. The outpost  _ has _ been freeing from the confines of court life, that he cannot deny. There was a simplicity here that he was never afforded (or afforded himself) in Rosohna. There was petty politics- any encampment or group of folk will have them- but never anything country-defining. They were all surviving and working together here. There was a professional camaraderie amongst most- at least until recently with the staff changes. 

Jester challenges him to change the world, unaware of the thoughts Essek has had of undoing what has been done. Caleb changes the subject. 

Translocation. Teleportation. Magic. The Arcane.  _ Safe  _ topics. Essek readily explains his knowledge, how they work.

“To put it bluntly,” he carries on before realising what he was to say. No. They don’t need to know the depravity and cowardice Essek fell to. He simplifies it instead. “It either sent me a little ways off my intended destination, or I would try again the next day.” But there were other consequences, were there not? They surely don’t need to- but a warning would do them good. Just in case. 

Essek owns up to his failure- something he was trying to make a habit. “Or it  _ did _ eventually get me there, but in the process, I underwent some…  _ physical  _ stress.” He holds his breath habitually now and waits for any inclination of followup for details. Thankful none came except in the form of comic relief from Veth and Essek sighs a little. It is not relief, but it is a fraction less anxiousness. 

They share information and it is almost like how they used to be. 

They need him, so they claim. His strength is marginal, he argues, and, if they are to believed, ineffective against this Nonagon character. And yet… and yet... 

If his time is limited. If he stands in an hourglass with sand spilling at an increasing rate… if he could spend just a little more time selfishly in their company… could he not? Was that not his choice, after all? It would be a better way of going than waiting for his end to find him. He would not let terror and paranoia and fear control him. This way he could choose the non-coward’s way out and face it. 

Did he want to? Of course not. Self-preservation had been one of his defining drives for so long especially in recent years. That was not shaking any time soon. 

And yet… 

Essek cracks. The dam breaks and he floods the room with his introspection. They listen. And listen. His voice rises and falls, barely scratching the surface of the emotional turmoil he has undergone in the last few weeks. He does not know if they believe him. He… he doesn’t need them to. But he needed them to hear it anyway. 

Jester suggests using their spell- his and Caleb’s and Veth’s- to hide him away. And the thought had occurred but alas-

“That won’t really help with the inside.”

Essek’s mocking laugh escapes him quietly once more, and Essek’s head falls low. Of _course_ Caleb already knows what Essek is thinking. They were so attuned… for this entire sit down Essek has felt those blue eyes boring into him. Beauregard also to a lesser extent but Essek… Essek just feels the heat from one of them. Sitting cloaked in winter gear and his usual mantle, Essek has never felt more on display than sitting across the table from Caleb Widogast. It was infuriating and terrifying how easily that man could make Essek  _ feel _ . And Essek just  _ cannot  _ look back up at him when he speaks. 

He tries though. He is aware of his eyes returning often to the tabletop. And he hates that they do. But his mind… those chains, they weigh him down and pull his eyes away from those that have judged and condemned him to live. 

But he doesn’t have time for that- none of them do. A greater threat than Essek’s mind looms over them.

Their arrival grants Essek two things- a chance to peel off the mask and properly bear the weight of all the chains he now carries, and a newfound horror threatening the horizon. 

Essek’s ears twitch, his fingers steeple deep in thought and his eyes are magnetically drawn to the table as he listens to all the Nein spill forth. Essek doesn’t have the strength to carry it all. It’s too much, too soon. Too  _ close _ . But it’s  _ them _ and … at this point, Essek has accepted he would do anything for them, even if he feels the reverse to be untrue. 

But he does not say so aloud, not in so many words. 

And then the Nein add a weight of worry of their own- de Rogna is dead, and the trail leads to them… which has led to him. 

He cannot- not- he can’t- it’s- _they-_

It’s been weeks and weeks of looking over his shoulder and the room is closing in against he walls converging the door is behind him why did he put the door to his back that was stupid and folly and he needs a - he needs- he just has to-

The cocoa is spiced with whiskey and it warms him. It tastes sharp and unsweetened but he cares not for the ability to drink gives him a reason to not breathe or hyperventilate on the spot with his throat closed to all else but hot liquid pouring through him. 

They were supposed to be a safe haven from all this despite what they portended and now Essek doesn’t even have that. 

It...physically pains him to ask but he  _ begs  _ for distance. Distance is all he had. Distance from the capital, from the politics, from the prying eyes of spies and snobbish nobility looking to tear down another house with shame. 

And what shame he would bring. 

Essek promises, solemnly, to accompany them when they do go but it cannot be now. His responsibilities are what is keeping him aloft and even then… he will not abandon these people prematurely. Only in the future when it is dire and absolutely necessary to do so, but not before. He needs to plan, he needs to prepare. The folk here do not exactly require him, they are hardy and intimidating and capable on their own. But the principle sticks with him, as does the routine. He also feels the rising panic attack building within threatening to burst out and if there’s one thing he will not have them witness it is him fully broken and unable to function he needs space he needs privacy he needs them  _ gone _ -

He attempts to usher them out, the encroaching dread flooding his chest and threatening immediate alarm but there’s a new weight. A warm weight. 

Essek is so shocked by the act that Caleb pins him with his gaze on the spot and Essek is helpless to escape it. 

_ “Breathe,” _ he whispers. And Essek, Light help him, complies. 

The breath is deep and long. It is the first full breath Essek has taken in… as long as he remembers. On the inhale are his worries and woes, fears and torments. He takes in all the stress and feels his chest expand- resisting against the weight of those damning chains and for a brief moment, Essek is the lightest he’s ever been. 

The exhale brings reality gently back down upon him but now the chains are shifted- rearranged  _ ever  _ so slightly to be more comfortable and manageable. 

Essek almost suspects a spell cast upon him but it’s  _ Caleb. _ The hand on his arm anchors him to  _ here _ . To  _ now _ . Reminds him that this is where his focus needs to be. Where once Essek would pass this off as manipulation and them playing the game they would dance… now Essek can only take it at face value. He has to. He … cannot bear to think Caleb is still using him as he suspected before. Essek knows such knowledge would crush him if true, and so he pretends and believes to himself that this is real. Whatever Caleb’s intentions are, Essek disregards them and listens. Essek still suspects a spell, but it not one of arcane or divine making.

“Just…  _ breathe _ … that fresh air.” Caleb’s eyes dart sidewards and Essek is aware they stand facing the thoroughfare of this crude outpost. He finds himself nodding. And  _ breathing. _ “Time…” he whispers and Essek knows that Caleb is aware he is hanging onto every thread of this. Selfish as it is,  _ torturous _ as it is to be so close and yet so… 

Essek is helpless and damn him he doesn’t care that he is. 

“ _ Time, _ ” Caleb repeats. “Not weeks. Not years.” Those eyes bear down upon Essek with a wisdom and pain only grafted from hard experience. Essek believes him. He does. For all their age difference Caleb has perhaps experienced more in the way of what Essek is dealing with now than Essek has across a century and more. And so Essek greedily absorbs every word, every breath between them, and the one point of contact holding them together. Time, he thinks. If only it were to stand still. Just for this moment. It was all he had wanted. It is not forgiveness or absolution. Essek doubts he will ever earn or get that. But this moment here… this he will take. 

“It takes  _ time.” _

Words fail him. There is so much Essek has yearned to say and while he has spoken specifically to the group of most of it, there were far more private words he wanted for Caleb that… he feared he would never have opportunity or chance to. 

Now was not that time, he realised. Perhaps that’s what Caleb hinted at. In time they could talk, they could… 

His mind swims. For all Essek had been chasing distance as his way of surviving, Caleb is telling him it is time. It makes Essek smile, a little later in private. The student reminding his former teacher to think of his own speciality. The irony is not lost upon Essek later, but in the moment Essek is unable to formulate anything else other than gratitude that Caleb is caring for him. 

Essek doesn’t know, and is scared to know, in what capacity, but he is a selfish creature still and will take what he doesn’t think to be owed. 

“Indeed,” he responds. It is a grateful prayer, a reverent sigh, and apology all in one. It holds all that which he wishes to say and yet cannot and Essek finds the strength to maintain their gaze. Caleb seems to understand the gravitas and in a brief moment that Essek fears he’s gone too far, Caleb’s hand leaves Essek’s arm cold and untethered. But then there is a hand gently cupping his face with an act that can only be considered intimate and the man is gone. 

When the door has closed and Essek turns around, the walls have returned to their original foundations and in fact… the room seems a lot dimmer and a little more empty now that the Nein have swept their way through his meagre chambers. 

Back resting against the door, one hand pressed between both, his other reaches to touch his forehead where the lingering kiss of a plea still haunts him. 

The arm drops heavily, eyes close in exasperation, and his head tips to rest against the door. 

How far he had fallen indeed. 

"Breathe..." he repeats. It is a chant, a mantra. A blessing and permission to live. One that he did not think that he needed but was gifted anyway. "Just breathe," he hears Caleb whispering.

His nostrils flare as he inhales-

And Essek draws his full second breath in weeks. 

Caleb was right. It was fresh. 

Essek smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck. me. Up. also hell yeah for Uraya (Associate of Essek) lore btw!!!! I won’t edit my previous Tales because they have a certain charm and interpretation I am fond of but I do love the absolute stonks we got about them this ep. I hope to meet them soon. *blows a kiss to Rosonha* for Uraya (Associate of Essek).
> 
> Oh yeah… and the wizards. I guess. Pfft. not like they had any last impact on me noooo what shut up _you’re_ emotionally compromised not me! 
> 
> T_T


End file.
